Crescent Moon
by VoxAscension
Summary: The vigilante meets someone who isn't what they seem, and runs up against the boundaries of law-breaker in the process. Rated T for safety for later chapters.


As is the disclaimer everywhere on this site, I DO NOT own Mr. Wayne, his alter ego, nor his famous gallery of friends and foes. :) Enjoy!

Prologue

_He sits in the Trophy Room, fingers steepled as he stares at it. So innocent, so incongruous when you just looked at it as an outsider. Just colors and canvas, the representation of a city by moonlight. _

_For him, it holds all of the fear, the anger, and the guilt that one lifetime could invest in an object. It reminds him of hard choices, broken rules, and a life destroyed. It's a hell of a thing to be staring at on his birthday_.

Glass shatters across carpet, showering splinters across an arm held up in defense of a face. Within seconds, a decision is made and someone takes a side. _His_ side. A throw rug, a concealing futon, and he is out of sight of the floodlights as they illuminate a young woman reading a book in her apartment, confused by the helicopter that stares her down for a moment, then sweeps away.

A few moments later, she pulls back the concealment and examines the man who has come crashing through her door wall and now lies bloody on her floor. Her soft lamp-lighting illuminates a bloody helmet and bloody torso; even now the red wells up and tracks a trail down into the carpet. She leans forward to check for breath, her face within inches of features she can't clearly see.

A breath; a tickle of life in her hair. She pushes herself up in relief—and finds a strong hand wrapped around her throat. She gasps for air, clawing ineffectively for a moment at the steel vise that holds her, squeezing the life from her lungs. Her hands descend toward his eyes, a defensive move she'd rather not employ. Just before contact, they snap open, dark in the lamps, and widen in recognition.

She is dropped abruptly, rocking back to send air into her screaming lungs. He is trying ineffectively to get up, not aided at all by her presence on his cape. Coughing, she grasps his shoulder and pushes him down gently. He ignores her, acting more the wounded animal, desperate to escape, than a fully-functioning, rational being. Finally, she grasps the sides of his concealed face and speaks straight into his half-rolled eyes.

"You're safe. You're _safe_." Her voice is roughened by the abuse to her throat, but it gets through.

Something registers inside him; he stops struggling for a moment before gently grasping her hands and removing them from his helmet.

"They aren't gone yet," she says urgently. "If you're going to move, move _inside_." She hears the whine faintly again, and it's enough to propel her upward, her arm locked under his shoulder. Painfully, they rise together, stumbling into the hallway that leads to her bedroom. The little hallway is windowless and out-of-sight. She lowers him gently and sprints to the living room, lowering the futon in the half-second before the light streams in again. She has a blanket over her bloody shoulder now, but doubts they will put two-and-two together.

It is enough to send the floodlights on their way, spurred by what sounds like the city's own police helicopter. She grins, baring her teeth in satisfaction. At least they are good for _something_.

She looks at her watch; a total of ten minutes have gone by since she was peacefully enjoying her evening. She approaches the man again, caution etched into every movement. He is a black shadow hunched against a chocolate wall, features impossible to distinguish.

She clears her ravaged throat. There is no response from the crumpled figure. She brings up the dimmer slightly, and now that the immediate danger has passed, studies the outline. Black on black on black but for a small oval of yellow. Spikes on the gauntlets, armor everywhere. Blood everywhere. Whatever this guy might be, he was no joke.

Squatting down to eye level, she can't help but whisper, "What kind of penance are _you_ paying?" It is a question she expects no answer to, even if he was aware enough to hear it. It is a question she cannot imagine the answer to.

Very gently, she probes the wound in his head. A part of the helmet has collapsed, and she wonders what could cut through carbon like that and leave his head still _on_. She jumps up and ransacks her first aid kit for supplies and her kitchen for scissors and a flashlight.

The brighter light reveals that the skull underneath is intact, surrounded by thick dark hair that is determined to get in her way. She breathes deeply in relief, though, coughing slightly with the effort. She gently wipes away the blood and presses paper towels against it, essentially stuffing the hole in the helmet with paper. It will have to do.

The wound on his left side is troublesome (crushed armor again) but she sees no bones. Gritting her teeth with the frustrations of combat medicine, she probes it physically and feels a long, wide, shallow wound the size of her palm. He stirs underneath her hand, the pain cutting back through his psyche. Those eyes pull open once more, and she can see that they are a dark blue. The pupils are off on their dilation, and she frowns in concern.

"You have a concussion." She says softly. She is close to him now, close enough to be strangled, close enough to do damage of her own. She hopes he is aware enough to recognize help. "Is there someone I can call?"

There is no recognition of the question. He touches his own wrist-all attention on the movement, and she frowns more. If he cannot understand speech—she repeats the question in Spanish, French, and Russian in the hopes she might strike a chord.

He answers in English, local in its flavor. His voice is hoarse, rough, and everything that might be expected from a man dressed like a nightmare.

"Get me to the roof."

She chews on her lip a moment, debating the wisdom of the move. There is no guarantee the chopper is gone. She looks at her watch. Thirty minutes have elapsed. Fuel range on that size of helicopter is limited to about three hours, and they are now being chased by Gotham PD. It's worth the risk.

She nods to him. "Wait here."

She is back moments later, the elevator locked into position. She curses how much she is potentially giving away now but the fates are aligned against her.

"Come on," she grits, gripping his shoulder once more. A touch of fear for her own exposure makes her more powerful; his arm around her shoulder supporting him makes them faster. The cape makes them clumsier until she wraps it around him roughly.

They make the outer hallway in time for the power to go out. She grimaces until she hears the soft words:

"Just get me in there."

She complies, and the power snaps on immediately. The doors slide shut and they move to the roof access. He says nothing as he takes in the disabled camera. He does not comment as she produces a key and a code to get them there; she grimaces again as she steadies him with a shoulder and a knee to do it.

They push their way down a service corridor; his ragged breathing does not to reassure her of his state. She is now covered in his blood, her clothing ruined beyond repair. It's in her hair, and she smells it on his breath and prays it's just that he's bitten his cheek and not punctured a lung.

They emerge into the night, and she sucks in a breath at the shock of the coolness of it. In front of them a slim black shadow blots the sky. It is silent, but she feels the light vibration of a powerful engine. They make their way to it, and she sees something detach from it at their approach—as her eyes adjust to the tricks of the city lights, she sees it is a chair-like contraption descended from the cockpit of a high-tech plane. Their last, struggling steps get him level with it, and she does not let go until he is slowly, painfully lowered into it.

He makes only one sound during the process-impressive. He must be in incredible pain.

She steps back and the slim, dark plane swallows him whole. There are no lights and very little sound as it rises into the night and disappears. She sighs deeply and rubs her throat, a worried line forming between her eyebrows.

She has a feeling it isn't over yet.

She is right.


End file.
